Richard and Walter were quite ready for Phœbe’s impromptu luncheon, which she managed in the quickest possible time and set for them on her porch. She listened to their story of the lucky arrival of the yacht, heard its name, Sago-ye-wat-ha, and listened to its virtues extolled, but kept aloof from their enthusiasm.
Walter was the first to notice her silence. “You tol’ me to get it,” he said; “an’—I got it.”
“Well! well!” said Richard. “Are you at the bottom of this, too?”
Richard had found his voice again.
“I always said if he owned his own boat he could do wonders on this Lake.”
“You are very keen,” he smiled at her.
“Oh, I know my tables,” she replied cheerily; “and I know a good sailor when I see one; and I know your fellow-conspirator, Mr. De Lancey.”
Richard looked up from a sandwich, but said nothing.
“I hope you’re not going to go into the sulks again?” she asked. “There’ll be no fun in houndin’ you to earth and layin’ bare your nefarious plots if every time I get you in a corner you play deaf and dumb.”
He laughed good-naturedly. All the kinks were out of his mind now; he felt vigorous and alert, and knew—he was thankful—that Phœbe had ceased to depress him into speechlessness. And following consistently his tried theory, he knew that all was well between them.